Untitled
by Amorina Deanna
Summary: I have discovered that, when people mention the name ‘Draco Malfoy’, there is a limited amount of reactions that I can get out of a person.' Scorpius Malfoy about his father.


a/n: this is just a rambling angsty fic. **Warning!!!** There is a hint of slash.

I have discovered that, when people mention the name 'Draco Malfoy', there is a limited amount of reactions that I can get out of a person. There is, of course, the wince and shudder that shows the person recognizes the family name and feels it is synonymous with the name 'Voldemort'. This usually comes from people who do not realize who I am. They do not look at my blonde hair and gray eyes and think, 'That boy is a Malfoy'.

Another one, that I have encountered more and more as I grow older, usually comes from young witches and their mothers. These women are the ones who read Witch Weekly and agree with the editors: Draco Malfoy is truly the hottest man alive. The physical reaction to this is a wistful sigh and a glance to my face and form.

These women look at me like that wishing, with that contemplative look in their eye, that I looked more like my father. They do not realize, however, and I wish to keep it that way, that I _do_ look like my father. When my father was sixteen, he had the pointy chin and sharp cheekbones. We have the same thin lips that Al enjoys kissing so. The Malfoy hair and gray eyes were not lost on me, either. I feel, however, that I was blessed with a better fashion sense than my father had. I do not know, maybe it has something to do with the way I swing. Either way, I look like my father; my grandmother always says I am the spitting image of him when he was my age. I wish the women to keep from knowing that, however. I have enough on my hands already. I do not need to explain to them why I am not and will never be interested in them.

One reaction that I have never encountered is a blank stare. My father is as infamous as Al's is famous.

As I child, I remember coming home from the park to which my nanny had taken me. She could tell something was wrong. It was not often that I asked to leave early. My mother says that when she sat me down to talk to me she could see that stubborn look in my eye that my father gets sometimes. She loves to imitate the obstinate point of my chin that I can relate to so many childhood pictures.

My mother had to fight the story out of me. She did so, in that calm and controlled way of hers that I have often admired and envied. I had mentioned my father in conversation with some other child at the park. The child had looked at me, tears in her eyes, and told me that my daddy was a very, _very_ bad man. She then turned her back and walked away.

My mother explained a little bit to me then, and I have learned more, from her and others, since that fateful day. That was the day I learned that my daddy, the man who I looked up to and loved with all my boyish heart, was not as heroic as I thought he was.

My father has only hit me once. According to my mother, he was hit many a time as a child and even into his teenage years. I have done all of the research that I am able to about what it was like for Voldemort's followers, during and after his reign. Armed with my love for my father and the knowledge I have gathered, I am working towards forgiveness.

He may have only hit me once, but the scars, emotional and physical, have carried with me to this day. We were arguing. It was about something stupid like how I was wearing my hair, or something. My mother always tells me to pick my battles. And I, as a headstrong boy just entering teenage-hood, decided to pick this one. I was, you know, almost a _man_ and should be able to wear my hair whichever way _I_ wanted.

He was up in my face, yelling. I do not remember this part, but my mother claims I pushed him backwards. This is perfectly probable, because I do remember asking him, repeatedly, to 'please, back up out of my face'. How is anyone supposed to be able to listen with spittle flying into their face?

I pushed him, he hit me. His hand flew and hit me, right across the face. I remember backing up in alarm. Mother pulled him off me.

What does it mean that I cannot remember what happened next?

It has been three years since then. I have not told anybody, not even Al. My father hurt me, yes. However, he has never hit my mother and I love him. I have not completely forgiven my father. I do not know if I ever can. What I _am_ able to do, however, is to look at his past and what he was taught. I can understand what he did, even if I cannot trust or forgive him. I can understand.

No matter what happens, I think that I will always love my father.


End file.
